Demi Lovato Imagines

Bully pt.2

TW - mentions of ED

The same feeling. Morning light glows orange through your eyelids as you lie in bed. The weight on top of your chest grows bigger, heavier. 

It's one of those typical symptoms of anxiety. You've looked it up, silently scrolling through forums and WebMD, shoulders sagged behind your computer. "Shortness of breath", "feelings of choking", "a feeling of being detached from the world" -

You can check that last one off too now. Since your dad's phone call, that is how you've felt. Like you're looking at everything through water. Like the voices from the TV are being transmitted through a tin can. Like you're just going through the motions by strings, one attached to each of your limbs, dragging you from your bed every morning. 

You don't know where the energy is coming from. It's not like you're eating enough. It's not like you're eating at all most days. Your dad's lectures do that to you. Every time he cuts into you with comments about how you're doing nothing with your life you feel a little more inclined to just disappear completely, to not bother anymore. You're trying. Truly. But you're just not going anywhere. This isn't an acceptable answer for your dad though. So you just nodded wordlessly through the phone and pushed down the ache of hunger at the bottom of your stomach. When he finally hung up on you, you had to run to work so as not to be late. 

You're going to be late today if you don't get a move on. Pointedly avoiding looking at your phone, you roll out of bed and start making yourself ready, pulling your Publix shirt over your head then running fingers through your hair. Demi's number is in there. You're fully aware of that. And you're fully aware of the promise you made to her, that you would contact her if you were struggling. Which you are. But you're not going to send that text. What if she rejects you? What if she leaves you on read? You can't risk revealing that no one - not even the one person you didn't think would ever be there for you but promised that she would be - cares. You're a coward. There's no point denying it. But it's not the worst thing you've been called. 

By seven-thirty, you're clocked in, behind a counter, scanning. Butter, ham, bread, divider. Cash or card? Thank you, sir. Yoghurt, Tupperware, granola, Haribos, Rotisserie chicken, birthday card, divider. Cash or card? Thank you, have a good day. Beer, burger buns, cheese, divider. Cash or card?

You don't even look up most of the time, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen and at the numbers tallying up with every item swiped across the red beam. Not that anyone cares. No one's going to complain to the manager that one of their employees wasn't showing enough enthusiasm. That's just something they say at training to spur you all on and threaten you with the wrath of superiors.

Toothpaste, apples, broccoli, divider. Cash or card? Thanks. Drain unblocker, vacuum bags, a bunch of lilies, divider. Cash or card? Dog food, divider. 

"Cash or card?"

"You didn't text me."

Looking up, your eyes burn from staring at bright pixels for hours. Demi's standing there, hands wrapped around the strap of her bag hooked over her shoulder.  

"Hey," you say quietly. She looks so out of place, a sparkling celebrity against the backdrop of beige plywood and lime-green. 

"You said you'd text me if things were getting bad for you," she repeats, lips drawn in a straight line. Her eyes wander around you, at your slicing cheekbones and prominent collar-bones. 

"I'm fine," you shrug. 

"You don't look it."

"Thanks."

She pushed air out her nose and shakes her head.

"You know what I mean."

You tap on the screen to give the impression you're actually doing something.